


The Bargain

by leobrat



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leobrat/pseuds/leobrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mary looked back on it later, she would come to realize that, in a roundabout way, it was perhaps the jolt she needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bargain

**Author's Note:**

> It's long been my head-canon that this scene (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJmvOvRhXKc) would have had so much more punch if Mary had been the one to find Nanny West. Otherwise, it didn't really have any more greater story ramifications. And how this could have been a jumping off point for Mary/Tom if it were. Un-beta'd.

When Mary looked back on it later, she would come to realize that, in a roundabout way, it was perhaps the jolt she needed.

 

She’d read in novels that grief was like suffocating, as though the person were drowning, could not breathe. Not so for her. It was as if she were fading into mist, disappearing into the Yorkshire fog. And for months, she did nothing to reach for something solid to pull herself back.

 

Conversations went on quietly around her. The rest eventually had to get on with their lives, and the last thing she wanted was to be fussed over. When Barrow confided in her mother that Nanny West might not be suited for her position, George’s sweet little face passed through her mind. 

 

But Mama took in Barrow’s thoughts, and then seemed content to go about the rest of the day, so Mary left it alone. Her mother had been pulling the weight of many, parenting her grandchildren on the day-to-day, and Mary was comfortable that she knew best. 

 

It was not her usual path to cross the gallery by the nursery on the way back from dinner, and Mary couldn’t say what made her turn in that direction. She’d had little mother’s intuition up to that point, that was certain. But she heard that sweet baby cry, and remembered Barrow’s words. What had she abandoned her son to? Poor little orphan.

 

Coming closer, Nanny West’s voice joined the cries, calm and soothing, and Mary turned to go back, but then she heard it, what only could be described as evil.

 

_...wicked, little crossbreed…_

 

And the fog lifted. She could feel the blood rush through her muscles, the bones solid in her body once more and her breath came in a hard gust to her lungs, filling her, as she went through the door. 

 

Of course, things happened rather quickly at that point. Mrs Hughes assisted in removing that horrid woman as swiftly as possible, and when she was alone with the children, Mary stood between their cribs. She smoothed a hand over George’s baby-fine hair. He had already fallen back asleep, no memory of his first five months. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I went away for a little while. I’m back now.”

 

And turning to Sybbie, Mary was struck by how very much she looked like Sybil. Dark curls and the hint of pink in her cheeks. She was nearly two years old, and loved by everyone at Downton- everyone in the village, everyone she had ever met. But she had been without a mother every day of her life. And Mary could never replace Sybil, never could even try. But… “Things will be different for you now, my darling. I promise.”

 

She turned when she heard someone at the door. Mrs Hughes had returned, looking rather distressed. “My lady, I apologize that a maid hasn’t yet come up. There was an incident downstairs and-”

 

But Mary hand-waved at her explanations. She was tired and wanted to go to bed. It wasn’t the tired that had faded her day by day since the accident, but the sort of tired she hadn’t felt in a long time. She wanted a good night’s sleep to get up the next day and face it right. Reaching into the crib, she lifted Sybbie against her shoulder, shushing her with rubs against her back. She was so little. Mary could have strangled that wretched Nanny West. “Will you follow with Master George, Mrs Hughes?”

 

The housekeeper obliged, with a curious expression as she followed Mary back through the gallery to the bedrooms on the other side, eventually to her own bedroom. 

 

“Will you please help me change, Mrs Hughes?” Mary asked as she tucked them both into her big, empty bed. They curled into each other, a comforted pair. Mary didn’t take her eyes off them as Mrs Hughes laid out her nightgown and helped her to take down her hair.

 

“Will I send Anna up to take the children back to the nursery, my lady?” Mrs Hughes questioned.

 

Mary shook her head. The house had never seemed overly large to her, it was her childhood home, and a place of comfort, but the nursery seemed so very far away and she couldn’t bear that distance. “The children need to rest, they have had quite enough upheaval for one night, and I’d like to keep them close. God knows what they’ve been through in that nursery.” 

 

When the world was quiet again, Mary watched them from the chair. She was tired but could not take her eyes away from them. Careful not to disturb their slumber, she eased onto the bed next to Sybbie, and her breath caught when the little girl twisted and rolled into her, her chubby little hand reached over her hip. Mary gently stroked a slim finger over the soft, chubby little hand. 

 

There was a soft knock at the door, and Mary whispered to _come in_ , as loud as she dared. She was expecting her mother, perhaps, or Anna, double-checking that she didn’t need to be relieved of the children ( _how fragile they must have seen me, all this time_ ), but the door pushed open and it was Tom, in his robe and slippers. He waved, glancing down to the babies sleeping in the bed, his own daughter curled into her aunt. He pulled up the chair on the other side of bed, closest to George.

 

“I understand Nanny West has been dismissed,” he whispered. “What happened?”

 

Mary was silent for a moment. She didn’t want to admit what she’d heard, when Tom was only starting to feel comfortable in the family. It would break his heart to think of his daughter being mistreated because of him. It broke her own heart too. “She was cruel to the children. I heard George crying and she handled him roughly.” Mary forgave herself her lie.

 

Tom’s eyes widened and he looked down on the little chap. He laid his large hand on the sleeping baby. “My little man,” he crooned softly. 

 

She cried very rarely, and never in the presence of another. But the image of George’s head cradled by a large, man’s hand- he was only held by his father the one time. Mary felt tears sting her eyes, but she pulled them back before they could fall. “You know, they’re not orphans,” she said, keeping her voice low and even, conscious of Sybbie’s even breathing at her side. 

 

Tom looked up sharply, his blue eyes bright in the flickering firelight. He looked somewhat angry. “I know that.”

 

Mary kept herself steady, brushing back Sybbie’s silky curls. “All the same, this little one needs a mother.” She looked back at Tom, and the anger had gone out of him, and she could just see the deep, profound sadness that was always present, even if it wasn’t in the forefront. 

 

“I...I’m not ready for that,” he whispered, his voice shaky. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be. I can’t imagine it.”

 

Mary nodded. “I know that. That’s why she’s got me.” Tom gave her the barest of a smile, and Mary watched how his hand was still cradled protectively around her boy’s head.

 

“He’ll never want either, you know,” Tom answered. “Whether you find someone down the road or not, I’ll always love him as my own.” His tiny smile widened to a grin. “And when he gets into a trouble as a lad, you can steer him to me.” 

 

Mary returned the smile, but was quiet. She’d been hoping he would say that, even if he was just being kind. It would make the rest of this go so much easier. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to go again, either. I don’t think I would want to.” Tom nodded in sympathy and Mary continued. “That’s why I think you and I should marry.”

 

Tom moved so quickly that George whimpered and Mary drew her finger over her lips, reminding him to be quiet. Before George could start to really fuss, Tom picked him up against his shoulder, wrapping his robe around the both of them. “Come off it,” he whispered once George had quieted.

 

“I know, I know it sounds mad,” Mary agreed. Her voice hadn’t changed its pitch at all. “But this isn’t about love and romance- we’ve done that. This is about them.” She gestured to the two babies between them, sleeping peacefully through the negotiations on their future. “I’m not saying we should run off to Gretna Green on Tuesday. I’d want to wait at least a year, out of respect for Isobel-”

 

“You’ve really given this some thought, have you?” Tom’s eyes were incredulous, but not entirely put off. Mary soldiered on.

 

“We run the estate together. Our children are treated as siblings as it is. And we’d never have to worry about someone coming along and…” Mary didn’t finish her thought. She wasn’t quite sure about that last.

 

“Someone coming along to try to make you happy?” Tom finished for her. “Would that be so terrible?”

 

Mary leveled her gaze at him. “As I said, it’s not about that. It’s about things making sense. Matthew died in a stupid car crash, after everything he went through in the war. Sybil was twenty-four years old, going through the most normal thing a woman can. And these children need us, because they don’t have them.”

 

Tom was quiet, absent-mindedly rubbing circles over George’s back. Mary expected him to excuse himself, and to try to forget this conversation. But then- “A year, you say?” He finally said, softly. 

 

“It doesn’t need to be any sort of formal affair. We needn’t say anything to the family. Not yet.” Mary returned to that low, steady voice. 

 

Tom gave the wryest hint of a sad smile. “A lot can happen in a year.”

 

Mary smiled back, over their sleeping children.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to *tentatively* say that this might be the first chapter of a longer work. I'm usually not great at keeping up at that sort of thing. But perhaps.


End file.
